The whiskey on your breath

Could make a small boy dizzy;

But I hung on like death:

Such waltzing was not easy.

"Oh Lithuania~" the voice from the hall made the small nation's blood run cold. The voice he had heard too many times before. It made him pause, should he try and run? Hide? It did no good anyway. And then he was there; Russia's smiling face loomed above him, his breath reeking of vodka. Which it always did but Lithuania could tell when Russia was truly drunk, he could always tell, and right now he was very, very drunk.

Russia grabbed his shirt, pulling him impossibly close and making the dark haired nation loose his balance. His hands reached to catch his fall, one tangling in the scarf that sat on the broad chest in front of him the other grabbing on to the big coat. He was afraid to look up, afraid to see if Russia was mad that he grabbed him. But he couldn't keep his gaze averted. Russia's face was the same; a sickening smile plastered on the too pale face. "Let's play a game malyutka."

We romped until the pans

Slid from the kitchen shelf;

My mother's countenance

Could not unfrown itself.

Lithuania's head hit the wall, the pictures and other wall hangings rattling on their hooks. He slid down the wall – blood: red, hot, and sticky running down his face. He wanted to sit and rest, this dance was hard to do, the steps complicated and tiring despite their sameness. But Russia would never let him do that. A punch, a kick, a scratch, it all continued. They could never stop until the end.

He saw Estonia out of the corner of his eye peeking through the door. He had that frown on his face. That frown, that frown, that frown! It was always there!

'Why don't you leave Lithuania?' How could he? Where would he go?

'Why don't you hide like the rest of us? You could avoid most of this.' What did he know? What did he know of their dance?

Lithuania was on the floor. He tasted leather and blood.

The hand that held my wrist

Was battered on one knuckle;

At every step you missed

My right ear scraped a buckle

Russia bent and lifted him up by his arm, a chuckle rising from deep in his chest. He raised the dark haired nation until his feat barely touched the ground.

"You shouldn't be on the floor malyutka. That's not where you belong." Lithuania's eyes drifted to the hand that was wrenching his arm. He had taken off his gloves; he always did when they danced. The hands were familiar but he was still surprised by the number of cuts and scars that littered those hands. Russia wasn't untouchable. Russia could be hurt.

The larger man moved to continue the dance, but his drunkenness made his steps uneasy. He slipped, jerking the arm he still had hold of sending Lithuania careening forward. He couldn't catch himself this time. Russia spun to keep himself from falling and Lithuania just passed him. A searing pain enveloped the side of his head: a hand to the pain came away red. His ear had been cut, but that could not stop the dance so he got up once again.

You beat time on my head

With a palm caked hard by dirt,

The large man was more focused now. But he never had good rhythm.

One two

One two three one two three

Onetwothreefour

One-and-a two-and-a

Each new beat was unexpected and jarring. Lithuania could never truly follow him, but he could never lead. Russia's hands were stained red now. Red and brown from filth and blood. Lithuania's head was spinning, he knew he wouldn't be able to see out of at least one of his eyes tomorrow and his nose felt broken.

'Why do you let this happen to you?' Why? He didn't know. He could probably stop it if he really tried. There were plenty of countries who would take him in.

But then who would dance with him?

He slid down the wall one last time, what was left of his vision starting to blur. Russia had taken a step back. He shook his head as if trying to clear it then looked down on Lithuania crumpled on the floor.

"What happened comrade? Who did this to you?" Russia never saw the blood on his hands.

"I don't know." A silly answer but one that was always accepted. Russia looks truly worried now, his big hands swooping down to lift the smaller man from the floor once more; gently this time. He cradled him in his arms as Lithuania once again wrapped his hands around the scarf and gripped the large coat, trying to stop his shaking.

"Let's get you cleaned up da?" This dance was over. The water would wash away the evidence but there would be another dance tomorrow. Or next week, it didn't matter.

Then waltzed me off to bed

Still clinging to your shirt.

Maybe there was a better way to dance. If he went to another country he could surely learn a new dance that didn't leave him broken and bleeding. A new dance with new steps he could follow.

Russia smiled down at him, not that terrifying smile, but a real smile. Soft and warm.

...

Lithuania was never good at dancing anyway.

A/N: the poem (that's all the stuff that's been centered) is called My Papa's Waltz and it's by Theodore Roethke. I didn't write it and I'm not saying I did. And before people who've read this already start yelling at me saying I got the feeling of the poem wrong I am aware that most people think it's a happy poem. We were talking about it in my intro to lit class and the book says "most readers find the speaker's attitude toward his father critical, but nonetheless affectionate. They take this recollection of childhood to be an odd but happy one." But that's not what I got when I read it….obvously. I got this idea half way through class and it wouldn't leave me alone so here it is XD I tried to capture the duality of the poem but…..*shrugs*

Malyutka: little one